


They Say It's Special

by adrift_me



Series: Entrusted - Gravebone Short Stories [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Deleted Scenes, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 17:41:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9913787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrift_me/pseuds/adrift_me
Summary: Deleted scene with the flower at a diner that happened between real Percival Graves and Credence.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I headcanon this flower to look like described and having powers as described :)
> 
> The story is written, as always, for my awesome friend [Marion](gravesfrommacusa.tumblr.com)
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://accio-toffy.tumblr.com/) :)  
> Do you have a prompt for Gravebone? Send me an ask and I'll write it ;)

Graves is painfully aware of curious gazes as he is leaving the MACUSA building. No one would question his departure if he fakes a serious enough look. They are used to seeing him storm off on an investigation, his coat billowing in fast walk. Sometimes an auror or two would scurry behind him, indicating a particularly important business.

But today a ghost of a smile on his face is betraying a pretence of a supposedly serious matter, and makes people wonder where the Director of Magical Security is heading.

Leaving bemused employees behind, he apparates to a street much further away from MACUSA. His walk is slow, his shoulders are spread in a proud posture that comes natural with the weight of his coat. Graves is not aware, but everyone around him is, that his whole being radiates power and respect strong enough to attract admiring glances from no-majs and wizards alike.

He is secretly exhilarated.

Several weeks ago he discovered a young man with such power that it’s surprising it doesn’t burst out. It resides inside him, waiting to be grown like a flower, well cared for. And Graves prides himself, almost jealous of himself, for holding power over this young man. He is vulnerable and abandoned, he is an easy prey for someone of Graves’ standing. And yet the auror doesn’t use it. How can he, when the boy has as much control over him, with his innocent looks and desperate need for appreciation.

Several weeks ago Percival Graves didn’t know what he was getting himself into. Today he is readily walking into shameless worshipping with his arms spread wide.

Graves chooses a respectably looking diner, perfectly merged with a facade of boring buildings lining the street. A colourful signboard, hanging over the entrance, invites people to “Bill’s”. Graves visited it several times before and is certain of food quality and the lack of people in afternoon hours. The place can be easily lost in dull atmosphere of the street, but today it’s quite noticeable for Graves, whose attention is drawn to a figure by the entrance. A shy, slouching figure that looks uncertain of its existence and searches for permission to stand so close to normal people hurrying by.

Graves slows his pace down, approaching the green and golden painted diner. His eyes are glued to Credence. The boy stands reservedly, hands stuck to his sides. There are no leaflets for him to hold, no distraction for long pale hands. He is not hiding them, but they hang in such a given up manner, that it’s hard not to find the boy quite pitiful.

Graves smiles to himself and relishes the idea that soon Credence will be free. His hands won’t be cut by hateful leaflets nor will they be tortured by whips of leather. They will be loved, caressed and kissed with care and fondness he deserves.

The auror approaches the young man openly, giving him a small friendly smile. Credence’s face lights up with an affectionate expression, but his eyes are not brave enough to look up. He makes a step forward; it’s been a natural thing to do for weeks. Graves encourages it every time, opening his arms wide, inviting the boy to rest his head on his shoulder. Ever since it happened for the first time, he grants Credence a moment’s embrace, fulfilling his hunger for contact he never receives but craves for.

“Credence,” Graves says softly, standing close to the boy but not embracing his expectant shoulders. “Did you have any problem leaving your post?”

“No, Mr. Graves,” says Credence. He hesitates at his own movements, the way his body is involuntarily drawn to Graves’. Percival reassures him by squeezing his upper arms.

He opens the door of the diner ajar and makes a gentlemanly gesture of inviting the boy to step inside. Credence looks at the entrance of the diner with uncertainty, his hunching posture emphasizing the way he stands out in grey crowd. Graves had the displeasure of seeing how people treat Credence, what disapproving glances they throw at him. Possessive beast in his chest fights to burst out and protect the boy, to show the world that he is more than they think.

They step inside, followed by a small gust of wind. Were it not for the late afternoon, they would have already earned scornful looks from other visitors. The diner is mostly empty, however, and Graves congratulates himself on the choice of time and place for their meeting.

The diner is stretched long. It’s divided from the kitchens by a polished bar with high seats. They look anything but comfortable, holding a couple of dining visitors. They pay no attention to Graves and Credence, fully concentrated on consuming their sandwiches. 

There are plenty of tidy and neat tables, all covered with worn out white tablecloths and decorated with sorry wilted carnations. Graves gently guides Credence by his shoulder towards a corner table by the furthest wall. The seat, that Credence carefully places himself into, allows the boy to find refuge behind the short part of a wall. With shy curiosity he looks at the outside world, so unaccepting of him, but now indifferent. Graves steals a glance at Credence, whose face is turned and lit by dull afternoon light. His cheekbones are perfectly open for studying. His eyes are wider than usual and they seem braver, observing the street from behind a curtain of window glass.

A waitress approaches their table, distracting Credence from watching the outside world and Graves watching Credence.

“Would you like to try today’s special, sirs?” the waitress says in a honey-sweet voice, offering the guests a thin booklet of a menu.

“What would it be?” Graves can’t help a chuckle as he glances at flushed Credence. The waitress pulls out a small notebook from her front pocket.

“A chicken mushroom soup, sir, the cook’s own special recipe.”

Graves lowers the menu and looks at Credence, whose eyes are firmly trained on the center of the table. It’s so easy to take control over the situation, to show off power in the cheapest manner. But Graves is thoughtful and careful. Right now imitation of choice is better than no choice at all.

“What do you think, Credence?”

“S-sir? I’m not sure…”

“We are being told that it’s special,” Graves emphasizes.

Credence’s mouth corner twitches just a little, barely noticeable, but enough to give Percival an idea of a smile.

“Chicken mushroom soup it is then. And some tea later, with a slice of pie,” he returns his gaze at the waitress who grants the man a cheerful smile. She retrieves the menu booklets and disappears in the kitchens.

All they need now is an illusion. It’s a simple trick for Graves to divert curiousity of the diner staff from their booth. He leans beside the table, as if to check the laces on his shoes, and makes a gesture with his hand from bottom to top. He feels the power of the illusion charm, shielding them from prying eyes, and returns to the matter at hand that is Credence.

“You did magic, sir,” states the boy plainly, still looking at Graves’ hand. He puts it before him, locked in intertwined fingers, visible and without a secret, all for Credence to see.

“I did. No one will hear what we are talking about, no one will see us unless I allow them to.”

“It sounds… like powerful magic, Mr. Graves.”

“It is, my boy,” nods the auror. Credence braves a look at the man opposite him. He is quite the opposite in everything, Graves knows it. Different people, different age, different education and world views. Different worlds. Whatever brought them together had to be of magic.

“I’m glad you agreed to see me, Credence,” states Graves with soft appreciation, leaning on the table with his hands still interlocked. “I imagine my performance of magic during our last meeting must have puzzled you. But I found it necessary to be sincere with you, Credence. And you needed help.”

“I appreciate it, sir.”

“You don’t seem surprised anymore, however.”

“I had time to think about it, sir,” Credence speaks slowly, each word carefully weighted and rolled in his mouth. He must be reaching a limit of words he wants to say per year, let alone actually  _ speak _ them. Graves waits patiently for the young man to form sentences, braving each following word more and more. “Mr. Graves, why  _ did _ you want to see me again?”

Graves chuckles, going through a number of unspoken reasons in his mind. Instead he concentrates on one of the most major ones. He’s given it a lot of thought during the past week and has come to a decision that would violently shake MACUSA if discovered. It would shudder the most basic principles of current magical community, it may even throw Graves in the same pit as the infamous European wizard Grindelwald. But would they dare? 

“I would like to teach you magic, Credence.”

His words hang in the air as the boy raises his eyes to stare at the man. They are much braver because Graves might not be a human being anymore, but a statue to be worshipped. The auror suddenly feels both small and powerful under Credence’s gaze, whose eyes are amazed and unbelieving.

“Me?” he finally stutters, overcoming the initial shock.

Graves reclines on the soft back of the seat, looking in Credence’s eyes firmly.

“If you wish, of course.”

“Yes,” the boy says hurriedly, as if his only chance is slipping away with each second. “But Ma…”

“Won’t even notice. Magic leaves traces but not those that a human eye can see plainly. Magic is inside you. It can be tamed, nurtured and with good care it can fall under your control. You know you have it in you, Credence.”

Graves disposes of the illusion charm, allowing the waitress to finally take notice of their table and serve two bowls of steaming hot soup. The auror leaves Credence in peace to feast upon food and information, each being nourishing and warming. He can see the boy’s mind working behind the pale appearance of his face.

Graves slowly finishes his own portion of soup, feeling rather content when his bowl is empty. He finds himself thoroughly enjoying Credence’s company, and he is hopeful that when the boy is free from shackles of “motherly” care, he can join in discussions about magical issues, books and studies. It’s so easy to slide into daydreaming, imagining breathtaking mornings, fruitful afternoons and peaceful evenings. Those imagined times are bathed in love and affection, there is no place for cruelty, only delicate care and recovery.

The illusion charm is restored to keep peace between the world of magic and no-majs within such a confined place. Credence follows Graves’ hand movement as it makes the air ripple just a little, informing them of the magical presence.

Graves notices something in Credence, how he half breathes in, words ready to slip off his tongue. He needs permission to talk, he always does.

“Is there something you wanted to say?”

“Mr. Graves, but why me?”

Percival knows that even if it sounds like a short question, it beholds a thousand more. Why him and not someone else? What has he done to deserve such respectful treatment? Does Graves even have time for someone like him? And if he does, why would he spend it on such a trivial matter as a worthless boy like himself?

Graves’ own way of thinking, of putting those questions in shape from the letters Credence gives him, lures into desire to kiss those hands that hide beneath the table, a desire he finds hard to suppress.

But he does.

His attention is drawn away by another sorry figure present at the table. A bunch of carnations, their white petals slightly touched by rich pink, are bowing their heads towards the table. They are hunched figures, unremarkable until you take a closer look. And when you do, they show your their intricate patterns, they are gentle to touch. It may be a trick of imagination that when Graves reaches for one of the flowers, it leans into his fingers.

He pulls the short cut flower from its transparent vase and shakes off water excess.

Graves rises from his seat, gesturing for Credence to stay where he is. The auror walks around the table and joins the young man by his side, sitting close enough for their shoulders to touch.

“Look, Credence,” says Graves quietly, holding the carnation out for Credence to see. “This flower is neglected, it resides in dirty water of a confined vase. Its petals are unhealthy and the blossom is drooping.”

Graves’ fingertips brush the flower delicately. Credence’s head is tilted and he is spellbound by the show. Percival reaches out and covers the young man’s hand, he hopes it feels reassuring and protective, not abusive and condescending. He warms his bruised hand, strokes his long fingers and then lifts his hand to bring it to touch the flower.

His desire to kiss that perfect skin is no less than it was ten minutes before.

“Look, my boy, look at how eager this poor flower is for some attention. At times it fears touches, but give it a taste of magic, magic that doesn’t have to be literal…”

Graves feels that his face is close to Credence’s and he suppresses the wish to lean in and brush his nose against that tender skin. He lowers his eyes and they look at the way the boy’s mouth is parted. He breathes in.

His hand covers Credence’s and the flower stem is trapped between their touching palms. Graves smiles at the sight of it and with a slightest gesture of his right hand he turns the flower into a periculid. Petals expand and become pointy, their rich pink tint turns red. It grows in their hands and when the transformation is complete, it gives a strong sweet scent.

“This flower is used in the most dangerous potion, Credence. One that can put a person’s mind to eternal sleep. One that can turn a person’s affection in any chosen direction. But it will only do so, if it’s forced to, if its petals are crushed and enchanted. I would like you to keep it.”

Credence blushes so hard that his cheeks become a great contrast to overall pale skin. His full lips are stretched in a genuine smile as Graves wraps Credence’s fingers around the thin stem of the periculid.

“Do you see, my boy, how this flower looks with a touch of magic? How it opens up, how beautiful it looks.”

With every word he leans even closer to Credence, now whispering in his ear. It’s so easy to move just half an inch further and plant a kiss on those burning red cheeks.

And he does, feeling the skin under his lips, how the boy pushes his face into the touch. How his fingers lose strength and the flower almost slides out of his grip. Graves catches it and once more his fingers wrap around Credence’s. Warm, protecting, promising.

The flower emits a swirl of pinkish-red gas, it curls and twirls over the blossom, spreading in a cloud of intricate playful motif with a pearly sheen. The most important, most powerful component of the Amortentia potion rests between their warm hands.

**Author's Note:**

> The prequel is available, check the series. Sequel following soon.


End file.
